


Ready or not, let go

by tree



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Feelings Realization, First Time, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: Letting things happen to her is exactly what she's fighting. This timeshe'swhat's going to happen.
Relationships: Walt Longmire/Victoria "Vic" Moretti
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> long, long ago there was a fic meme about using the titles of McSweeney's lists as writing prompts. this is not really that, but also not entirely not that. all of which is to say that the section titles come from McSweeneys. the title of the whole thing may or may not be a lyric from paul otten's song 'bridges burn'. thanks to ziparumpazoo for feedback on the first chapter; everything else is my fault alone.

**HOW TO THROW LIKE A GIRL**

There are two condoms hidden beneath the towel in her sports bag. Vic stares at the dull metal shine of the bag's zipper as she finishes tying the halter string of her newly purchased bikini. Two condoms, just in case one breaks. 

She turns and considers herself in the mirror, pressing both hands to her fluttering stomach. Someone who isn't quite her stares back. The girl in the mirror looks older than fifteen. Her body is all rounded curves covered by a few strategically placed swatches of white fabric held together with multi-colored ties. For once her shoulders and hips don't seem too wide, her butt doesn't seem too big. Like this, Vic thinks, she might even look pretty.

One last, deep breath to steady herself and then she's pulling on a tank top and shorts, sliding her feet into flip-flops, and tying her hair back into her usual ponytail. She hitches her bag over her shoulder, takes a final look in the mirror, and heads downstairs.

"I'm going over to Cady's," she calls to her mom as she opens the back door, not bothering to wait for a response.

Hot air swarms over her skin and into her lungs the moment she steps outside, even though it's only ten o'clock in the morning. So far, the August days have felt like a smothering blanket and the nights don't cool down enough to be much better. The air has a viscous feeling that's nothing like the crisp experience of being in actual water. Humidity is too tepid a word for it; it's more like the sludgy clamminess of a swamp, or like moving through lukewarm soup.

Even so, it's only a short walk across the lawn, through the gate in the fence, and into the backyard next door. Vic's done it so often over the last four years that she could walk it blindfolded or in her sleep on muscle memory alone. The gate latches with a metallic clunk when she pulls it shut on the other side. Unlike the patchy brown grass in her own backyard, the Longmires have a paved entertainment area that curves a winding sweep from the house to the pool. There's a small section of lawn and then a row of raised beds of vegetables and herbs. Everything is orderly and calm here, nothing like the chaos of home. 

Her body's autopilot sputters out when she's halfway across the flagstones. Vic knows this house as well as her own: all its angles, inside and out. She knows where to stand to be invisible to someone looking out from inside and that's where she finds herself coming to a halt. Bright sunlight ricochets off the wall of glass spanning most of the rear of the house, as if the glass itself is catching the sun's rays and flinging them straight in her direction. The effect is a dazzled sort of blindness that reminds her of the way things looked the first time she'd opened her eyes underwater: the beauty and not-quite-rightness of a familiar landscape made strange.

Sweat prickles at her hairline. Vic takes a few more steps, blinking rapidly, and moves out of the line of refraction. The sun pours down, melted yellow butter on her burning scalp. A few more steps and now she can see through the glass into the open kitchen and living area. _Going over to Cady's_ is what she'd said to her mother — what she always says — but Cady's not home right now and Vic knows it. Vic knows that the only person on the other side of that wall of glass is her best friend's brother.

Two condoms, just in case one breaks.

Walt is standing at the sink, his back to her. The room is filled with light. It shines through the glass and the skylight overhead; it picks out all the different shades of brown and gold in his hair, which has grown longer than usual this summer. She likes it this way: a little shaggy, the ends curling over his ears and against his neck. She wonders what it might feel like against her fingers. Other places.

A few more steps. Her heart's racing.

It's like the moments before the starter gun goes off: when she's in position up on the block, toes curling over the edge, with her back hunched, her legs bent, her arms like knives ready to cut a space in the water for the rest of her body to follow; when all her muscles are coiled and poised to spring and the swish of her pulse in her ears drowns out almost every other noise.

Any moment now he'll turn and see her. She could let it happen that way; she could wait and let it be him who sets this in motion, however unwittingly. But letting things happen to her is exactly what she's fighting. This time _she's_ what's going to happen.

Vic reaches out and slides open the door.

It glides smoothly in its track, with a faint sucking sound as the seal separates. Cool air from inside rushes at her, washing over her skin like water, like a blessing. She closes the door. Her heart is pounding up into her throat and she can hear her own breathing. Walt turns, sees her, and smiles. A flurry of sparks erupts in her stomach.

"Hey."

"Hi."

The bowl in his hand in full of grapes, their pale green skins beaded with water. His hands are tanned and roughened from working; they're strong, she knows, and gentle, with broad palms and long fingers equally skilled at playing the piano, gripping a saw, braiding his sister's hair.

Vic's spent the entire summer wondering what it would be like to feel those hands touch her.

"Want some?" He holds out the bowl.

It feels like she's walking in a dream, pushing against new air that suddenly has texture and density. She breaks off a stem from the bunch and drops her bag on the floor next to the counter.

"Thanks."

"So, what's up? I thought you were at the pool today."

The skin of the first grape splits crispy between her teeth, its sweet, juicy flesh filling her mouth.

"Somebody needed to switch shifts," she tells him. It's not unusual. As long as there are butts in the lifeguards' seats, the management doesn't care much about who the butts belong to.

Walt nods, leaning back against the opposite counter in a comfortable slouch, bare feet splayed on the tile. Vic boosts herself up onto the counter, letting her legs dangle and swing. Like this they're almost the same height and she studies him from beneath her lashes as she eats another grape. 

"What are you up to today?"

"Not much. Thought I'd do some reading." 

He offers her the bowl again and she shakes her head. The grapes she's already eaten are sitting heavily in her stomach, tight with nerves. She watches him break off another stem, mind blanking on a way to move this conversation where she needs it to go.

"Gonna swim?" he asks.

"Um, actually, I wanted to get your opinion on something."

"Okay," he says, turning to open the fridge, and it's such a perfect opportunity she can hardly believe it.

With his back to her, she yanks off her tank top and lets it drop. By the time he's shut the fridge and turned around, she's leaning back on her hands and smiling in a way she really hopes is sexy.

"What do you think?"

He swallows and looks down, seems confused that there's nothing in his hands. When he looks up again, it's obvious that he's looking somewhere over her shoulder. "I think you should put your shirt back on."

She gives him her best pout. "Does it look that bad?"

His eyes swing back to hers and hold. She feels herself flushing, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment at his lack of reaction. Acid swirls uneasily in her stomach.

"What's going on, Vic?"

She tries to laugh but it's a little too shrill to be genuine. Her voice comes out all squeaky. "Nothing."

"Vic" is all he says, still looking at her straight on, and for the first time she wishes he didn't know her so well.

With a shrug, she shifts her gaze down to her toes, watching them stretch and flex in the space between them. "I kind of, um, wanted to ask you a favor."

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Okay," he says after a beat, and waits.

_Shit,_ she thinks desperately. He's not going to give her anything else to work with.

Nothing is going the way she'd expected. All the clever and convincing things she's imagined herself saying have vanished from her mind. Her tongue feels heavy and too big for her mouth; her skin feels hot and too tight, like she's sunburned all over. 

This had seemed so straightforward when she was planning it out in her head.

A deep breath. She clears her throat and makes herself look at Walt. He's just standing there watching her, his expression hard to read. The sun blazing through all the glass makes his eyes a brilliant, impossible blue and brings all his details into vivid focus. The top of his nose is peeling a bit. There's a spot beneath his jaw that he missed while shaving. 

Something clenches tightly around her heart, squeezing and releasing in between one beat and the next. 

"What's going on, Vic?" he asks again.

"I want to have sex," she says in a rush. "With you."

His mouth opens slightly and his eyes widen. "What?" he asks, the word all air. If she wasn't looking at him she wouldn't have known he'd spoken.

Vic slides down from the counter, her flip-flops hitting the floor with a sharp slap. The impact jars her enough for the words stuck inside her to spill out. "You know my parents won't let me date until I'm sixteen, so it's not like I'm gonna have an actual boyfriend to do it with any time soon. I know too many girls whose first times ended up being at a party in somebody else's basement or the backseat of a car and I don't want it to be like that. I don't want it to be some rushed, hormonal thing that just happens with some guy I barely know." 

She can't hold his gaze anymore and has to look down at her hands. "I'm not looking for some big romantic thing, just..." Her scalp and ears tingle but she can't feel the rest of her body. She works up the nerve to meet his eyes again, offering him a shrug and a half smile. "It'd just be the one time."

He actually takes half a step back as if recoiling from a blow, bumping into the counter behind him. "Vic." Her name sounds like it's strangling him.

"I have condoms."

"No." His voice is low, quiet but firm.

"No, I don't have condoms?"

The joke falls flat between them, sinking like a stone, like her stomach as he just stands there.

She doesn't know what to do. It's never crossed her mind that he'd just shut her down. Walt has always been the one who's listened to her, talked things through with her, treated her like a person and not a dumb kid.

"Just like that? You're not even going to think about it?"

"There's nothing to think about." His posture is stiff; his mouth barely even moves.

"Wow. Okay." 

Hurt and embarrassment churn in her like storm clouds. "Okay." She's not looking at him. She can't look at him. "Thanks. See you later." It sounds brittle out loud, not nonchalant the way she wanted.

Walt takes a step toward her. "Vic—"

"It's fine," she says quickly. Grabs her bag and shies from him, heads in the other direction, not really seeing where she's going, just needing to get away from the humiliation.

"Vic, wait."

He's following her and her breath keeps catching painfully in her throat. She's so flustered that she's halfway down the hall before she realizes that she's heading for the front door and also her tank top is still back in the kitchen. Her parents will ground her until she's eighteen if they find out she even owns a bikini, let alone is actually wearing it.

She stops and turns, finds Walt much closer than expected. When she tries to push past him—and why is this hallway so stupidly narrow?—he blocks her, takes hold of her upper arms.

"Just wait a second, okay?"

"What for?" she demands. "You said no. There were only two options and that's the one you picked."

He lets her go with a sigh and runs his hand over the back of his head. "It's not that simple."

"Seems pretty simple to me. You fit the boy part into the girl part. Yes or no?"

His voice whips out, sharper than she's ever heard it. "I could go to jail, Vic."

There's a long moment of strained silence. 

"You're only fifteen," he says, almost like an apology. It makes her inexplicably angry and she grabs hold of that.

"Statutory rape laws exist to prevent adults from preying on children, Walt. First, you're not preying on me. Second, somebody would have to report it. I'm certainly not gonna do that, are you?" At his blank look, she nods. "Right. And third, they'd have to prove it happened, which would be impossible since you and I are the only ones here."

She's breathing hard by the time she's finished. Her whole body feels like it's vibrating with the force of everything whirling inside her. Walt's mouth is slightly open and he looks glazed and far-off, a look she's been seeing a lot this summer. She doesn't know what it means and right now she doesn't care. He's left her feeling smaller than she ever has before; instinct makes her lash out before she can be hurt any worse.

"But don't worry, you're off the hook. I'm sure it won't be too hard to find _someone_ willing to fuck me, even if you aren't," she says with defiance.

That gets his attention. "Vic, come on. Just think about it before you—"

"I _have_ thought about it, Walt! I know what I want and I'm ready for it. And maybe I'm not an adult yet, but I'm not a child either. I'm trying to be responsible here, but this is my body and I get to decide what I do with it."

"So you're just gonna go out and find any willing guy? That's your big decision?"

She stares him down with all the bravado she can muster. "Well, you don't want to do it, so, yeah. That's my decision. You don't get a say."

Some undefined emotion crosses his face. He turns his head, one hand on his hip, the other coming up to rub at his mouth. "Okay," he says to the wall.

"I don't need your permission, Walt."

He faces her again, subdued. "No, that's not, uh, not what I meant."

"Oh." A little stunned, she blinks, tries to swallow but forgets how halfway through and has to cough. "You mean..."

"If it's what you really want."

"Yeah," she says quickly. "Yeah, it is."

His eyes are so clear and serious.

"Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **please note the changes to the rating and warnings.** it's my headcanon that vic's birthday is in april and walt's birthday is in november. in this timeline that means vic turned 15 four months ago and walt will be turning 20 in three months. the rationale for their age difference is that it's large enough to be a significant issue, as it is in canon, without being creepy and gross. having once been a 15-year-old girl myself, four and a half years seems reasonable to me; if it doesn't to you, or if you find the concept of a 15-year-old girl making proactive decisions about her body and her sexuality, then i recommend you don't read any farther.

**DREAMS, BY PROXIMITY TO REALITY**

Vic's been in Walt's bedroom a few times before, but never without Cady nearby. Glancing around, she tells herself it's just a room, though she can't shake a sense of dislocation, as if she's somehow crossed the border into an unknown place. The light is dimmer here than downstairs, the sun blocked by heavy, half-closed drapes and filtered through the sheer curtains hanging beyond them. His bed's neatly made, a stack of books sitting on the floor next to it. Papers are scattered over the desk—a glance tells her some of them are sheet music—but the room is otherwise free of the disorder she associates with boys.

From behind her, Walt crosses to a small pile of what must be dirty clothes by the closet. "I'll just, uh..." He grabs them up and gestures to the door.

Once he's gone, Vic drops her bag by the desk and then stands there, unsure. Her hands feel clammy. When she'd thought about this part, she'd imagined it all just falling into place somehow, like a montage in a movie. There hadn't been this awkwardness and paralyzing silence; there hadn't been the terrible feeling that she's in over her head. Now that it's happening, all her confidence has faded and it really does feel like she's in a foreign country. She doesn't know the language or the customs. She needs a map, a phrase book, a guide — anything to tell her how to go from here to even touching him, let alone actually having sex. 

Glancing at the bed, she wonders if maybe she should get in it. Or maybe undress first. Is Walt expecting her to be waiting for him when he gets back? Figuring she'll need to be naked at some point anyway, she strips off her shorts and nudges them out of the way under the desk. Behind her she hears the door shut quietly and her stomach plummets like a cliff diver. This is really happening. Not knowing what she's supposed to do or how she's supposed to act, Vic falls back on what always gets her through: she brazens it out. 

Turning to Walt, she flashes him a bright smile and reaches up to undo the ties around her neck.

His hand rises in a halting motion. "Uh, maybe... Let's just sit for a minute."

It throws her. She'd thought he'd want to get right to it, but he sits on the side of the bed and rubs his hands against his jeans, not looking at all like a guy about to get laid. A little confused, a little wary, Vic lets her arms drop and walks over to sit beside him, chews on her lip and fiddles with her ponytail.

Walt tilts his head her way and waits until she meets his eyes. "I just wanted to, uh, to make sure that if you change your mind—"

"I won't."

"If you change your mind," he repeats, "if you want to stop, no matter when, promise you'll tell me."

All she can do is nod at first. He waits, though, looking at her with a focus that makes everything else fall away. Something new is rising up between them in this dim room, thrumming in the air like a distant bass note. She inches her hand over to press the side of her littlest finger against his.

"I promise."

With a tiny nod, Walt turns his hand over and slides it beneath hers, lacing their fingers together. Vic's never really held hands with a boy before, at least not since she was in elementary school. Holding hands is something you do with boyfriends, not guys you just make out with. It's such a simple, innocent kind of contact and yet all her senses seem to narrow to where their joined hands rest on his bedspread. He strokes his thumb back and forth along the outside of hers in a gentle motion that's somehow comforting and exciting at the same time. It lulls her into a tingly kind of drowsiness even as parts of her are rapidly waking up.

When she meets his eyes again there's a flicker of something in them that's too swift for her to read. Whatever it is, it tugs at her somewhere deep in a way she can only describe as recognition. Suddenly he's very close and she can feel the warmth of his body all down her right side. Vic's tongue-tied, heart hammering away at her ribs as they just sit there, looking at one another. She's never had vertigo but she imagines it must feel like this. Her gaze darts down to his lips and she thinks hazily that she should do something, touch him or kiss him or take off her top. Anything to break this suffocating tension and get them started. But she's stuck in a body that's turned to lead and it's a struggle just to get air in and out of her lungs. 

After what feels like an excruciatingly long time, Walt lifts his other hand. It hovers tentatively in front of her before one finger stretches out and runs lightly over the slippery strap of her bikini.

"It doesn't look bad," he says, very quietly, watching the path of his finger. 

"What?" she whispers, mouth dry.

"Your swimsuit. You asked what I thought. Before."

"Oh." 

She maybe has a dim memory of that somewhere in her head.

"It looks nice."

"Thanks," she manages as he leans in closer, closer, all warmth and blue eyes and the faintest hint of a smile. 

Her eyes flutter closed and she's waiting, holding her breath, still can't seem to move. Instead of the kiss she expects, Vic feels the lightest brush of his lips on her shoulder. No one's ever kissed her there before; she hadn't known such an ordinary part of her body could be so sensitive. Tendrils of warmth spread under her skin as Walt paints a path of barely-there kisses from her shoulder across her collar bone. He smells really good, like soap and cotton, and his hair is soft against her cheek. She turns her face into the thick strands, overwhelmed by a strange little ache in the center of her chest. Slow heat rises up her neck, suffusing her cheeks and spreading out to the tips of her ears. Her left hand curls over the edge of the bed, holding on tightly against the feeling that she's falling. Walt's finger is still running slowly along the path of her bikini strap, but underneath it now, against her skin. Just that line, up and down, up and down, making her feel all shivery and weak.

None of this is familiar.

Going from zero to sixty in six seconds or less: that's what she's used to. Because time and opportunity don't abound when you're fifteen, so you have to make the most of what you can get. Vic likes the speed, likes the hot electric buzz under her skin that overtakes everything else; it stops her thinking or feeling anything beyond the dangerous live wire of her body. But Walt's gradual pace won't let her sink into it the way she's used to. Her mind isn't blank; she's intensely aware of every breath, every incremental touch as his lips skim over her skin, suck lightly on her ear lobe, nuzzle the spot behind her ear that makes her shudder. 

Everything is soft and slow and dreamy. Walt lets go of her hand to reach up and cradle her jaw; the tips of two fingers stroke the sensitive skin of her nape. Just that light touch makes her feel boneless, her muscles softened to melting wax. Shivers are racing down her spine even as his warmth is seeping into her and heating her up. He moves closer still, his other hand crossing her body to plant itself next to her hip. She manages to release her grip on the bed and twist further into him, pushing their bodies into more contact, letting him surround her.

By the time he reaches her mouth she's breathless and light-headed, can't hold on to a single scattered thought. His thumb traces a gentle path along her jaw; his hot breath hovers at the corner of her mouth. She can't wait any longer. Vic turns her head just enough and his lips are right there, sliding over hers, _god, finally_. But he's still going slow, only giving her infuriatingly soft, nibbling kisses until she has to hold his head in place with both hands to keep him still and make him kiss her for real.

She feels it _everywhere_. His tongue slides against hers and a hot current floods her entire body. Her toes actually curl into the carpet in reaction. 

Kissing Walt is so unlike what she's used to. It's deliciously slow and deep, nothing but tongues and lips and wet heat. His hands are still, one cradling her cheek, the other curved around her hip, his thumb just lightly stroking her skin. This doesn't feel like he's doing her a favor at all. It feels like he means it, like he's thought about it and wanted it the way she has. 

Vic's got her hands under his t-shirt, running over his soft, hot skin, the hair on his chest, feeling the way his muscles flex at her touch. He makes a sound in his throat then breaks away and it takes her a moment to catch up. His eyes are intent on her, searching. Abruptly self-conscious, she licks the corner of her mouth, asks, "Is something wrong?"

He gives her one of his tiny smiles. "No." And again, almost a whisper, "No."

God, the way he looks — flushed skin, pupils blown wide, lips red and wet — hardly like himself at all. Something squeezes at her heart, that strange ache flaring. She doesn't want to have to think about it now so she leans in and presses her lips beneath the line of his jaw. The skin there is a little rough, a little salty. She likes the way it tastes, the way it feels against her tongue; loves the way he gasps and shifts in response.

As if she's set him in motion, Walt slides his hand from her hip and up along her waist. Ribbons of electricity dance beneath each finger, five lines of fire written on her skin. His touch curves higher, over her ribs and rising, until a single finger slips under the band of her bikini. Vic feels suspended in time, holding her breath against his neck. Then that single finger begins tracing lightly along the curve where her breast and her rib-cage meet. Her insides twist and heat, turning liquid. He slips his whole hand under the band, all the way up and over her breast, and she makes an embarrassing noise when his palm grazes her nipple. 

He stops. They're both motionless, panting.

"Is this okay?"

"Uh huh," she gasps.

Then he's tilting her face to his and kissing her again and she's clutching at him because he's setting her on fire. His fingers stroke all around and over every inch of her breast. It feels nothing like when she touches herself; she's never this patient or this thorough. He brushes his thumb in a circle around her nipple and then across the tip and she has to tear her mouth from his to find some air for the high, breathless sound that comes out. His hand is so gentle cupping and squeezing, fingers flexing and rubbing. Vic can't concentrate on kissing anymore, can't even catch her breath. She knows he's watching her but she's so drugged by his touch that she can't open her eyes, can't do anything except feel what he's doing to her.

"Can I take this off?" He tugs lightly on the ties around her neck. His voice is low and ragged and just the sound of it sets off a hot pulse inside her.

She licks her lips and nods, forcing her eyes open. Her hands have forgotten how to work, so she just pulls them out from under his t-shirt and lets him deal with undoing the knot. He drags the whole thing off over her head and then she's sitting there—topless—in front of him. Vic hasn't been this naked in front of anyone since she was a little girl, but it's impossible to feel awkward with Walt looking at her like that. Like she's something amazing. 

"Your turn," she says and her voice is shaky but she's determined, so she grabs the hem of his t-shirt and tugs upward.

He eases back to strip it off, throws it on the floor without taking his eyes from her. He's all firm muscle and chest hair and hot skin. No surprise after she's spent so many summers in the pool with him, but now she has this chance to look deliberately without guilt, and to touch him without having to let go. Right now he's hers, at least for a little while. The knowledge fills her with elation and she reaches for him greedily.

It all gets muddled when he starts touching her too, the way he feels and the way he's making her feel, the heat of his body and the heat inside her winding itself in thick strands, pulling her taut. She barely notices him easing her down to lie flat on the bed, too busy trying to touch as much of him with as much of herself as she can. Then he's shifting, moving lower, his soft hair brushing her chest, his lips against her sternum. His warm, wet mouth on her breast.

"Oh," she breathes shakily. 

He sucks kisses onto her skin, licks, flicks his tongue against her nipple, takes it gently between his teeth and tugs so that she feels the pull away from her breast, the almost-painful stretch. She clutches at his shoulders, her whole body throbbing in time with her racing pulse. Walt kisses his way across to her other breast and starts all over again. Everything feels even sharper, more intense, and her hips begin to rock upwards, seeking. He slides his hand down and cups between her legs, his palm resting right over her pubic bone, and starts pressing down with a sort of rolling motion. She's burning up, writhing underneath him; she can't believe how good it feels, how much she needs it, can't believe that it's really Walt doing this to her, that she's not dreaming.

His fingers are rubbing her through the fabric of her bikini the way his tongue is rubbing against her nipple and she can't stop the incoherent noises coming out of her mouth. Then his fingers aren't rubbing, they're slipping under the fabric and down, down— _oh god, oh fuck_ —and curling in. He's barely touching her but her hips arch up off the bed and she hears, feels, him make a sound against her skin before he starts kissing his way down her stomach. She whimpers in frustration when he lifts his hand away, but he sits up and tugs at the ties on her bikini, first one hip, then the other. She reaches down, pulls away the scrap of fabric, and shoves it to the floor. 

Then Walt's just looking at her. All of her. 

Vic is suddenly keenly aware of her body, her nakedness, and what it means. One knee rises up defensively before she can stop herself. She bites her lip and has to hold her arms rigid at her sides so they can't fly up to cover her breasts. 

_This is what I want,_ she reminds herself. _I can handle it._

Walt's eyes flick up to meet hers. His face is flushed, intent, and he's breathing hard, his chest expanding with the effort. 

"We can stop now if—"

"No." Vic's determined; this is happening. She clears her throat. "I just haven't, um, you know — no clothes and everything..." Her voice trails off and she cringes in humiliation. Fuck, she's ruining it. Walt's going to change his mind now because she's acting like an immature kid, making a big deal out of nothing. People get naked all the time. What is _wrong_ with her?

"Hey," he murmurs, squeezing her hand.

It's so sweet and she wants to cry and she hates that. This isn't what it's supposed to be like; this isn't what she planned.

He moves up to lie beside her again and wraps his arms around her. His lips brush against her cheek, her jaw, over to her ear. "You're beautiful." 

The way he says it, like it's the truth, melts everything cold inside her. Vic curls into him, feeling his steady hands on her back, the solid warmth of his body against hers. God, he's being so nice. She pushes herself away to meet his eyes because she can do this; she _can_. There's a smile curving his lips, one she doesn't think she's ever seen on him before. Her heart does a funny flip-flop and she feels herself smiling back without even thinking about it.

He smooths the wisps of hair at her temple with gentle fingers. "Okay?"

"Yeah," she says, a little surprised that it's the truth. 

To prove it, she leans up to kiss his smiling mouth, licking her way in to stroke his tongue with her own. He makes a sound in his throat and pulls her tighter against him. Her thigh rides up over his, the denim of his jeans faintly scratchy against her skin. It's as if the last few minutes didn't even happen. He's kissing her breathless and all she can seem to do is kiss him back and run her hands everywhere she can reach. There's just so much of him and she wants every bit. Their bodies shift against each other: chests, legs, arms, hands. Walt runs his palm from the curve of her hip down her thigh until he's gripping the back of her knee. He hitches her leg higher, and she moves with him, into him, eagerly. His hand slips between them, slides down, and she's spread wide open and she's thinking _please please please_ and then he does and _oh_ —

_God._

"Is this okay?"

His eyes are on her; he's waiting for her to say something, but she can't. All she can do is rock into his hand and hope he gets it. When he does, when one finger starts stroking, impossibly gently, along her labia, she hears herself whimpering in a way that she's sure will be embarrassing later. More pressure then, and she can feel how wet she is, how easily his fingers slide over and around, up and down her slippery flesh. 

He's so gentle it's killing her. All her muscles are trembling and she's pushing against him and her hands are scrabbling at his chest for something to hold on to because it's possible that she might actually die from this. He circles one finger around her clit and she moans loudly and doesn't care. Embarrassment means nothing anymore; she forgets to worry if she's too loud, if she's too wet, if she looks weird down there. He circles again, faster, more firmly, and asks in a hoarse voice, "Like this?"

_Ohgodyes_

"Don't stop — oh — fuck — Walt —"

Every word is a circuit drawn by his finger, tugging at the skin around her clit but not quite making contact. Then his thumb slides up to replace his finger and she arches into it, trying to get more contact, more friction, more something, feeling her orgasm coiling tighter like a spring low in her belly. They're both panting as he pushes one finger inside her and it's so good, so good it almost hurts, pleasure right at the edge of pain. Everything in her clenches and she works her hips harder, trying to rock into it, to get him deeper. He slides his finger out in a slow drag and then there's two, two of them pushing into her and she can't breathe because he's sort of twisting them inside her in counterpoint to the way his thumb is rolling against her clit and she's sweating and her muscles are cramping and it's too much, too much to survive, she's splintering, dissolving, sobbing as she comes right there in his arms, in his bed, for the first time with anyone but herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silly me, thinking this was the one chapter that was almost finished. now here it is, seventy-two drafts later, split into two because it got so fucking long, and me with even less of an idea how it's going to play out than when i began. *throws hands up in despair*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said at the outset that i didn't know how long it would take me to write this fic and that pushing me for more would make me feel like shit. some people decided to go ahead and do it anyway. maybe they wanted me to feel like shit. maybe they're just selfish assholes. i don't know. i also don't care. when your audience is responsible for killing any interest you have in even _thinking_ about a fic, much less writing it, you really just stop giving any fucks at all.
> 
> to those readers who _haven't_ make me feel like shit: thank you. i mean, it's fucking sad that i'm thanking people for behaving with the absolute bare minimum of decency by not actively hurting me, but i guess that's just where we are now.

**LESSER KNOWN PARADOXES**

It takes a little while for Vic to pull herself back together. Her body feels scrambled, like she's been tossed around in a carnival ride until all her pieces have come loose. When she opens her eyes, she finds herself tucked along the length of Walt's body, with no memory of either of them having moved. His head is on the pillow close to hers; he's watching her with eyes so dark there's almost no blue left to see.

"You're really good at that," she says because her head's all floaty and she doesn't have much of a filter even at the best of times.

Walt smiles almost bashfully and glances down, then back up again, his eyes crinkling at the corners but no less intent. Held there in his gaze, Vic feels somehow that he's rinsed her clear, refined her until all that's left is her most tender and hidden skin. Part of her wants to get up and run at the idea of being so vulnerable. She can feel it skittering uneasily, trying to cover up. But there's something else, something new that's unfurling within her. Maybe she's just high on whatever orgasm chemicals her brain's been pumping out, but this new thing wants Walt to look, wants him to see. 

Vic lets her eyes wander over the curves and angles of his familiar face. Lying there with him, it feels like the room is sealed away from the rest of the world, in some kind of rarefied atmosphere. The muted sunshine coming through the window is soft, almost like moonlight; it bathes his hair and shoulders as if he's a statue spotlit in a museum. He's beautiful enough to be one, she thinks. And it seems odd to think of a man that way, as beautiful, but there isn't another word that feels right. Not that she'd ever say it out loud. Not that she's saying anything at all. There are so many thoughts circling in her head and this silence—hers, at least—should be strange, but it's not. It feels like this is exactly the way they're supposed to be.

Her body is a tingling, gelatinous heap, but she's still distractingly aware of Walt's skin and his heat. He's breathing quickly; she can see the way his pulse flutters at the base of his throat. Vic rests her fingers there in fascination and watches the column of his neck move as he swallows. Her heart is finally slowing down but his still beats fast and hard.

She raises her hand and feathers her fingers over his cheek, then down to his lips. He catches her there with a kiss to each of her fingertips and one on the center of her palm. She smiles helplessly, a little embarrassed at how gooey the gesture turns her insides. Mushy, lovey-dovey stuff has never been her thing, but she might have to reconsider after this. Especially when Walt's answering smile is so sweet and sincere that her only possible response is to kiss him. 

He sighs and pulls her closer. Heat gathers in her belly, spreading like spilled honey in every direction. Vic lets herself sink a little further into him, lets her hand drift down his chest, his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans.

Walt eases away a bit. He licks his bottom lip before he says, "You still want to?"

"Yes," she says, no hesitation. All the nerves that had been twisting her up have unwound. She's not scared anymore; she's not anything but here with him, more at peace than she's ever been. Her muscles feel loose and fluid; everything flows hot and slow inside her, golden like summer. She wants this. Not to prove or conquer anything anymore, but just for the sake of wanting him.

Whatever Walt sees on her face is convincing enough. He rolls onto his back and works at the buttons of his fly. There is something very, very sexy about watching the deft movements of his fingers above the bulge that's straining against the fabric. Vic knows she's staring but can't seem to help it.

When he's unbuttoned all the way, he looks over at her and kind of tugs at the quilt. "Uh, we could..."

It takes a second for her to get it. "Okay."

A lot of shifting around is required to push the quilt and the top sheet out of the way without either of them getting off the bed. There's some looking that turns into touching, then that turns into kissing, and then there's a lot more touching, too. It's a flurry of movement, all warm hands, wet mouths, her back against the cool sheet, and his body above her radiating heat like the sun. Only when she tries to pull him down against her does Vic realize they forgot to actually get him undressed.

She looks between them and then back up at his face. 

"I'm pretty sure you need to take your pants off for this to work."

Walt huffs a laugh and she can't be certain but he might be blushing as he rolls away to stand up. 

It should feel weird, she thinks, lying here naked and watching him take off his clothes. It doesn't, though. He's facing away from her and she studies the long lines of his back and the furrow of his spine, the way the strong muscles of his thighs move as he sheds his jeans and underwear. He's quick, so she doesn't get much time to appreciate it all before he's sitting on the side of the bed and reaching into the drawer of the nightstand. 

Holding a condom in his hand, he turns to look at her again. He's checking one more time, to make sure she's certain. No one's ever taken this much care with her before and her heart gives a painful little squeeze.

She sits up and kisses him softly. "I'm sure."

Until now she's kept her eyes from straying below his waist, but she lets them drift down as he puts on the condom. She's never seen a penis this close up in real life. He's a big guy and everything is proportional, which is what she'd expected. But despite knowing that it's not completely impossible for him to fit that thing inside her, she still experiences a flash of alarm because _Jesus_. There's no fucking way that's not going to hurt at least a little, even if it doesn't end up rearranging her internal organs.

Walt meets her eyes when he's done and a flutter runs through her stomach. She leans in to kiss him, this time sliding her tongue into his mouth. He moans softly and turns into her, pressing her back until she's lying flat again and he's hovering over her, balanced on one arm. With a surprising amount of grace, he pulls himself all the way onto the bed and settles between her legs. His weight on her pelvis feels good; she wants to push against it or rock or something, but he's too heavy. She opens her legs wider and experiments with putting her feet on his calves. That feels even better. For him, too, she guesses, because he closes his eyes and drops his head to rest against hers. 

The moment spins out. The air between their bodies is warm and close; it feels private, just for them. She runs her hands up his arms and across his shoulders, feeling the strength under the soft skin and hair. Walt lifts his head, opens his eyes. She can't help but smile, overwhelmed with sudden happiness. He smiles back and seems about to say something but doesn't. He kisses her instead.

It's like they've gone back to the very beginning. These are soft kisses, gentle and sweet. They build gradually, growing hotter and wetter as the warm liquid feeling inside her becomes a gnawing ache. Vic raises her knees higher on his hips, wanting to find some way to relieve it, wanting him to move, needing something to happen.

"God, come on," she pants into his mouth, digging her nails into his back. 

Walt smiles down at her again but it looks more serious this time. He lifts himself up a little and she feels him fumble for a second before there's pressure at the entrance of her vagina. It's nothing like his fingers. He brings his arm up and rests on both elbows, then his hips begin to press into her.

Oh, shit. It's really happening.

His face above her is strained, concentrating. They don't stop looking at each other, she's not sure they even blink, as he pushes into her so slowly. All the different flecks of color in his eyes are startlingly bright and Vic has the disorienting feeling that she's falling up into them.

It's excruciating in a way — not bad exactly, but so new and strange that she doesn't know what to do about it, how to adjust. There's resistance in her body. Her muscles are all tensed like they can't decide if they want to force him out or hold him in place, so they're trying to do both at the same time. It's not really pain the way she expected. More than anything else, it feels like flexing a pulled muscle that's almost healed. A good kind of stretch and ache, but an ache all the same. Hitching her legs as high as she can on his hips helps with that part, but all of it, the whole thing, is still just so _much_. It's still so completely overwhelming and she maybe wants to stop, just for a second, just to get her bearings.

Then he's all the way in and asking if she's all right and Vic's heart melts a little bit more. "I'm good," she tells him, because all of a sudden, right then, she is. All of a sudden, everything's okay.

Walt's face is still serious, though, studying her as if he's looking for clues. She really wants him to stop worrying, so she pulls his head down and starts teasing him with kisses. Just quick little nibbles in random spots until he's smiling against her mouth and trying to catch her lips with his. She's giggling and he feels huge inside her and it's all so different from how she'd thought it would be. It's all so much better.

Vic takes his face with both her hands and holds him still to really kiss him. The laughter dissolves in an instant. His mouth heats her up until she's clutching at him, her legs restless, trying to find some way to release the relentless pressure inside her. Then he finally starts to move and there's a moment as he's pushing back in when everything in her clenches in the most amazing way. It's like nothing she's ever felt before: a deep, shivery satisfaction that drags a rough sound out of her throat.

Walt goes completely still and looks down at her, panting. "Was that good or bad?"

"Good." She's panting, too. "Good, yeah, keep going."

Before long they're both sweating, their skin sticking together wherever it meets, and it's all so _real_ : the way her hair is caught and tugs uncomfortably with every movement, the way her thighs are starting to burn from the unfamiliar position, the way his heavy weight makes it hard to take a deep breath. Vic knows how sex works in theory, but she's only really thought in terms of part A fitting into part B and then — poof! — no longer a virgin. She hadn't given much thought to what came after, the way it keeps going and their whole bodies are so close and his face is right there, inescapable. She hadn't considered the noises both of them would make or what their bodies moving together would sound like. And she'd definitely never imagined Walt kissing her cheek and her neck or trailing his fingers along her temple, or the enormity of everything she'd feel at having him inside her body, as close as it's possible for two people to get.

He starts kissing her again, but it's messy and uncoordinated with all his concentration somewhere else. Vic knows he must be holding back, that he must be desperate to come. Just thinking about it sends a tingling rush spinning out from the tips of her ears to her toes. She tightens her legs around him, licks his sweaty neck, sucks on the hinge of his jaw. He lets out a guttural sound and starts speeding up, rocking her harder into the mattress. 

"Vic, I—I'm—" 

His eyes are wide and defenseless, and a fierce urge to protect him sweeps through her. She's so unbelievably glad he's the one here with her, can't imagine how she'd ever considered doing this with someone else. 

"It's okay," she whispers. "I want you to."

Walt buries his head against her neck and she listens to his harsh breath stuttering, staccato in her ear, tries to memorize everything, even the discomfort, because it's all part of this incredible thing they're doing together and it's never going to happen again. 

As the simple, awful truth dawns on her, so cold and clear it hurts, Vic wraps her arms around his shoulders, closes her eyes, and holds on.


	4. Chapter 4

**JUDY BLUME'S LESSER KNOWN PHILOSOPHY TEXTS**

Walt's surprisingly quiet when he comes, just a single soft moan as he slows down and then stills, pressing even more heavily against her. His ragged breathing sounds loud in her ear, like the ocean roar inside a seashell. 

She is so fucking stupid.

Soon they'll be separate again, the same people they were before. Walt will, anyway. In two weeks, he won't even be around anymore; he'll be back at college. But for Vic, the entire world's been rearranged. Something fundamental has shifted and there's no way to rewind far enough to get her back to who she was before this knowledge woke up and ruined everything.

She loves him.

She loves him and it's not as a brother or a friend but capital L love, love as in _in_ love, as in already fallen and falling still. That she's only figuring it out now, at the absolute worst moment possible, is just her own particular brand of messed up irony.

When Vic opens her eyes the ceiling seems to hover right above Walt's neck and shoulder. It looks close enough to touch if she just reaches out her hand, but it isn't. It's never going to be. She hugs him tightly for a few more seconds, her cheek pressed against his sweaty shoulder, then lets her arms and legs relax and slip away from his skin. It takes him a little while longer to move off her. Once he does, she shifts to her side, curling up against his chest to hide her face, afraid he'll see this new knowledge she's won like a shitty door prize. His heavy arm winds over her hip, warm hand resting low on her back.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"Are you all right?"

_No,_ she thinks, _not even a little bit,_ but she raises her head and takes him in: skin still flushed, hair a mess, eyes a deeper, twilight blue. The lines of his face are softer than Vic's ever seen and she's caught by how unguarded he looks. For some reason she feels sure that if he knew how he looked right now, he wouldn't want her to see. Her heart gives a painful little twist, but it's not his fault that she really is a dumb kid after all, so she makes herself smile. "Yeah."

He gives her one of his barely there smiles in return and his thumb begins tracing crescent moons on the small of her back. "I know it was, um, kind of fast."

A few seconds pass before she realizes he's actually embarrassed, like he thinks he did something wrong. "No! No, it was..." Her throat tightens up and she shakes her head, trying to find words that won't give too much away. "It was great."

The corner of his mouth ticks up a bit higher. He licks his bottom lip, then leans in a little, head still on the pillow, and without even thinking about it Vic tilts up to meet him. They kiss gently, lips pressing languidly, then shifting, pressing together again, never quite separating all the way. She sighs a humming sound and melts into him further in spite of herself.

After a while, Walt rests his forehead against hers."You didn't, uh... " His hand starts to slide back over her hip. "I could..."

Her brain is hazy and slow but it catches on with a sudden jolt. The thought of him touching her like that again, now, what she might blurt out — it's just too much. Vic grabs his arm and stutters, "No, I, um... I'm good." 

"You sure?"

He's frowning just slightly, as if he's worried about her not getting her recommended daily intake of orgasms. She smiles helplessly, wanting to kiss the little furrow between his eyebrows and let him do whatever he likes. Instead, she nods, because she's sure; she's very sure it's a bad idea to do any of those things. 

His answering smile is soft and drowsy. As a reward for her restraint, she allows herself to trace the curve beneath his lower lip, up onto the slightly rough skin of his cheek. Walt turns his head into her hand and kisses the tip of her finger. With a little sigh he closes his eyes and kisses the inside of her wrist softly, holding his lips there for several heartbeats. Despite everything they've just finished doing, Vic thinks this might be the moment that will haunt her the longest.

Her hand trails down to rest on his neck, just below his jaw, fingers tucked in the hollow behind his ear. Their bodies are pressed up against one another almost everywhere else, warm and a little sweaty, in a way that would be unpleasant in any other context with any other person. But not here; not with Walt. It feels deeply private to have this chance to see him so relaxed, so peaceful: an intimacy entirely different from sex. His eyes stay closed and his breathing slows down and she wonders what it would be like to fall asleep beside him, to wake up next to him. All she can do now is watch him while neighborhood sounds begin to filter back into her awareness, as if the seal protecting them from the world outside has broken open.

Vic knows she has to leave but she wants to stay. More than anything, she wants him to want her to stay. Her body feels heavy, tender in unfamiliar places, but it's nothing compared to how her heart feels too big for her chest. It's taking up so much space that she can't catch her breath. It aches, but not like a muscle, not like any pain she's ever felt, and she knows without being told that there's no remedy. This class is pass or fail; you get over it or you don't. Either way, you keep moving.

When her hand starts to go numb against Walt's neck, she lifts it gently away. Her half-hope that he's fallen asleep is drowned in the blue of his eyes as they open. He blinks at her slowly. 

"I, um, need to use the bathroom," she says.

"Okay."

She sits up and slides off the bed, turning away from him to find her clothes and put them on. Just her shorts and the top of her bikini; the bottoms go into her bag. 

"Do you want some water?" he asks.

"Yeah, thanks."

Before he can get out of bed, she opens the door and heads down the hall, telling herself she's not fleeing from him. In the bathroom, she pees, relieved to find that there's no pain anywhere, just a little stiffness in her hips.

Vic examines herself in the mirror as she washes her hands. The girl who looks back at her has swollen lips and messy hair; her face and neck are pinker than usual. All of it can be explained by too much sun and chlorine, and in an hour or so no one will be able to tell she's even kissed anybody, let alone had sex. Walt hasn't left any marks on her skin, hasn't given her so much as a hickey. That's a relief, she tells herself. Of course it is. But there's a tiny part of her wishing for some sign, some evidence of what's happened today and what it means. Some kind of proof.

She fixes her ponytail before walking slowly back to his room. The empty condom wrapper is sitting on the nightstand like one of those Xs that marks the spot on a treasure map. She remembers the two condoms in her bag and digs around to find one, placing it next to the wrapper. It's not much, but what else has she got? Hallmark doesn't exactly offer a _Thanks for deflowering me!_ selection.

"Hey," Walt says from the doorway. 

When she turns, he's holding out a glass; there's another one, half empty, in his other hand. Their fingers touch as she takes her glass and his eyes are back to their usual soft blue. If this were a movie there'd be some poignant melody playing, maybe something with strings. But it's not a movie so there's no music, only the low drone of someone's lawnmower outside.

He downs the rest of his glass in a few swallows. Vic sips at hers while she watches his throat move and wonders how she's ever going to forget the way it felt to kiss him there, the taste of his skin. He's only put his jeans back on, no shirt, and her eyes can't help taking him in, following a path from his shoulders all the way down to where the top button of his jeans rests against his belly. Her skin prickles with memory. She wants him all over again.

Walt turns to set his glass down on the desk and that's when she notices something sticking out of his back pocket.

"Is that my shirt?"

"Oh, yeah."

He hands it to her, taking her glass in exchange. This is how the whole thing started down in the kitchen, but in reverse. He gave her grapes; she took off her shirt. It seems like hours ago, now, or a lifetime. It seems like she was someone else.

Vic pulls the tank on over her head, wishing she could just hide inside it until this is all over. "Thanks."

"Sure."

She clears her throat, can't quite make eye contact. "So, I should probably get out of your hair."

"You're not in my hair."

"For once." 

It's supposed to be a joke but it's not funny at all. It's not even true. Unlike her brothers, Walt's never made her feel like she's in the way, even when she probably was. There's a knot twisting itself tighter in her stomach with every second that goes by, though; it makes her feel like a cable about to snap. She grabs at the strap of her bag and hefts it over her shoulder.

"Give me a second," he says. "I'll walk you out."

It's easier (and safer) not to argue.

They're silent all the way to the back door, then they both stop at the same time, like it's been choreographed. Walt's wearing his t-shirt again and apart from his slightly swollen lips he looks just the same as he did when she arrived. It's as if the last hour or so never even happened.

Vic leans in fast and hugs him around the middle, meaning to just give him a quick squeeze and then retreat, but his arms close around her in return. He takes a deep breath, then pulls her in closer, one arm winding through the gap where her bag hangs off her shoulder. Her throat burns and she tries to swallow past it, tries not to clutch at him the way she wants to.

"Thank you," she whispers and she thinks he might kiss the top of her head but she's not quite sure. It's all so much more than too much now. She's going to cry, she can feel it, and she can't do it in front of him. Clearing her throat, she steps back and pretends to adjust the zipper on her bag to avoid meeting his eyes. "So, I'll see you later."

"Yeah."

"Okay," she says uselessly and then she does look at him, because she can't help herself. She has no idea what's going on behind his eyes and all she can do is turn around and wrench open the door before she does something monumentally embarrassing, like say 'I love you' to his face. 

"Bye."

The door closes behind her; she hears its slide over the rollers and then the solid thunk as it meets the frame. Something about the finality of the sound pushes all the air from her lungs, but she keeps moving because she can't go back. Out here under the vicious sun, whose light bleaches all the colors from her eyes, in a world made of nothing but sharp white glare, she keeps moving.

* 

The water is almost hot enough to scald. It pounds down on her bent head like it's trying to beat some sense into her and Vic thinks darkly, _too late._ Her hair streams around her face, cocooning her field of vision so that she can see only a narrow vertical band of tile and body. Already her skin is turning red and blotchy from the heat.

She studies herself this way. In these small slices, she's just geometry. Just lines and curves and shapes. Geometry has rules, has solutions; it makes sense. Bodies and feelings only make chaos. 

With a perverse sense of defiance, Vic starts scrubbing at herself roughly to wash away every last trace of Walt. The memories stick to her, though. They won't rinse clean. Here, he touched her with his hands; here, with his mouth. 

Her breathing hitches. She scrubs harder.

For years the conversations in her periphery have been about falling in love, being in love, waiting for it to happen. She thinks that if those girls knew how it really felt, none of them would ever want it. This feels immense and terrible, a living pressure in her chest. It's suffocating: too big to breathe around. She gasps and chokes on the water streaming over her, coughing until her coughs become sobs and the separate sounds merge into one harsh animal noise that feels like it's being torn out of her, as if a wound had a voice. 

She needs to get angry, at Walt or at herself; it doesn't matter who. Anger has always been fuel, the gas in her getaway car. But the tank's empty now and her engine won't ignite just on fumes. All she can think of is how he'd looked at her, the way he'd smiled, his breath on her skin and his back flexing under her hands, the gravelly sound of his voice and its softness after. 

All she can think is that none of him has ever been hers to lose.

Sinking down to the floor, Vic huddles under the spray with her knees drawn up to her chin. The water spikes her lashes and runs little rivulets into her open mouth. Beneath her fingertips, the tiles feel smooth and warm but nothing like skin. She rests her head against her knees so that all she can see is their yellow-pink-red, then darkness when she closes her eyes.

The shower rains down on her and she waits. Water blurs everything, erases everything, given time.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first true WIP i've ever posted. (i.e. a fic for which i don't have an entire first draft or one whose chapters aren't individual stand-alone pieces.) here are some blanket statements to cover its entirety: no, i don't know how much there will be; no, i don't know when the next chapter will be finished. like every writer, i enjoy comments (yes, even criticism!), but asking/telling me to write more/faster has the exact opposite effect, and it also makes me feel like shit. of course, if you _want_ to make me feel like shit, now you know exactly how to go about it. your decision.


End file.
